


Clever Title Goes Here

by SandrC



Series: Not Another Fanfiction Collection [16]
Category: Not Another D&D Podcast (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spoilers through the Chosen Saga
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-01-23 13:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 13,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21320602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: A collection of flash fiction stream-of-conciousness character studies prompted by people over onmy Tumblr¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I think they're neat.
Relationships: Alanis/Ulfgar Trueaxe, Elias Stormborn/Lydia Stormborn, Gunther/Uncle Red, Martha Toegold/Beverly Toegold IV
Series: Not Another Fanfiction Collection [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1312925
Comments: 20
Kudos: 55





	1. Mavrus — fangirlsftw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucanus: "He's too dumb to betray us."  
Me, a fool, who thinks they know Zac's Type: "Oho?"  
Zac, about to clown me with Counterspell King Mavrus: >:3c
> 
> God I love Mavrus though
> 
> He's not dumb, he's just unmotivated. Also a sorcerer.

It’s all bullshit, isn’t it? Fuck, _yeah_, of _course_ it’s bullshit.

People say he should be _grateful_, that he’s _earned_ this _prestige_, attending _the University of Arcane Arts and Sciences_, where few of his kind tread.

There’s the kicker though. _His kind._ Like it’s some fucking _gift_ to be allowed by the mighty high elves and their bigass ears to attend their school. Just coz someone in his family fucked a dragon somehow and now he has dope fucking magic. Just coz he’s a _tiefling_ instead of a _proper_ elf.

_Horse. **Shit.**_

And it’s not like he even _needs_ to attend school? _Again_: magic coz someone in his family tree boned down a dragon. Innate as fuck. No studying required. But parents _are_ what parents _are_ and, _fuck_ man, the _University_ has a Name and Weight and it looks good on a job app—even if the world is ending and also, _who the fuck _puts “attended prestigious magic university” on their fucking resume except shitholes like Ren anyway?—so it didn’t _hurt_?

And the full ride _also_ didn’t hurt. Something something diversity requirements. Whatever floated their magic-ass city.

He _can_ hear them though. When they think he’s not paying attention—which is _all the time_ because, _again_, pretentious, racist, rich shitholes—they say he’s _unsightly_ or _unwanted_ or _stupid_. So sure, _fine_, he can play that way. Not live in the dorms, not attend classes, not _do jack shit_. He’ll fuck around _all he wants _coz they expect him to.

And besides, he can do fucking magic coz some scalie ancestor of his got lucky. Why not make the most of it and party with all of him?

He’s heard the crick elves making a ruckus outside city limits were dope at parties. Why not check that shit out? He had nothing better to do.


	2. Ilsed — quietchelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love a good villain.
> 
> Sometimes anger isn't fire. It's ice and poison and words sharpened into thin wires used to choke off your response.
> 
> When they get to him, it's gonna be great.

They leave a scar across his land.

He thinks of the shuddering cold that lances through his body when Akarot dies. Hate is too _weak_ a word.

The druid, crick elf, niece to the one he stole from Asmodeus, the one he tricked, the one let go. She _killed_ her. Released her from his service. She’s _dangerous_. The spores in Wrath coalescing into something that _looks_ like the other one, crying “_mother mother mother_”, those would be the ones to do it. She wouldn’t pass up a chance to make that wrong _right_. Nip her in the bud and sever every mycelium until _she_, too, _rots_.

“_Mother mother mother”_ they bleat, weak and helpless. He thinks about the book he bound the other with and the tinge in his chest where its power is missing. _Fucking Saviours, _turning all his nice things into components. _Selfish fucks_.

The human, half-elf, _twisted_ thing that says it’s a dwarf, once undead, thrice dead, touched by death more than even _that_. That one has the most buried deep deep down but it doesn’t take much. He wants _so bad_ to be accepted and there’s _something_ special for him in Greed. Some_one_ special. He’s already taken his love, what’s his life _one more time?_ And at a _dragon’s jaws._ Avaricious and dwarven and fire. _Everything_ the Hells _should_ be.

It was _clever_, he realizes, the movement taken in Frostwind. He wonders, with soft disinterested detachment, what it would have felt like to have torn asunder the Gash? The _freedom_ it would have afforded him _Pity. **Pity.**_

The halfling, small child of holy light, favored of Pelor, **_oh_**_ he was **easy**_. A soft _small_ mark. He already had _his father. _He already had _what mattered._ So take him to Heresy. Wouldn’t a reunion be _nice_? A fond meeting between _father_ and _son_? One he wishes _he_ could have but for that _fucking **holy** fucking **child**?_ But calm. _Calm_. He is patient. He can wait. _He **will** break them._

It is lonely. This is empirical. It is lonely and he is hollow and neither of these things are wrong but there is a strangeness when he watches them and feels something more than hate for these fucking _pathetic_ fucking _worms_ who would _take from him_. They leave a scar on Limbo and he _knows_. They tear through Lust, souls fluctuating, and he _delights_ in their _suffering_ and _terror_. They _barely_ make it out of Gluttony and he takes them and scatters them to their respective Hells.

And he _waits_.

Patience.

He has more planned.


	3. Deadeye — pab-loco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brennan Lee Mulligan came into Murph's home, into his game, looked him in the eyes, and whomped him so hard.
> 
> Deadeye is revenge for every dumb thing that Murph has done to him in Dimension 20 as well as their home game.
> 
> God I love that crick.  
**Warning: Suicidal thoughts**

He stands up. He drinks. It falls right through him. He straps Luanne and Reba on his hip and his back respectively. He steps outside.

It’s dark. The moon’s red. The air’s dry and stale. Tastes like death, _if he could taste_. His boots hit dirt. He meanders to _the Red Fen_.

How much of Deadeye is the elf who blew his brains out in a freak accident? How much of Deadeye is ashen Shadowfell dirt and dried blood that filled in the cracks? It’s harder to tell with every passing day. What even _are_ days? Time’s a fucking joke. _Fuck_ whoever told it first.

Someone, somewhere has a job. _Yessir_. _Yes ma'am. _Tip of the hat. A well-placed shot. The end. Turn in. Collect. Next. Again. _Again. **Again.**_

Sold his soul to get here. Would sell what’s _left_ to leave. Scrape his bones clean. He can’t remember what it’s like to live. This _can’t_ be living. He’s _dying_, slowly, and every last bit of his brain that ain’t tethered to his skull is seepin’ out. But he _can’t_ die. He was promised. **_He can’t die._**

_Fuck_, he wants to die.

It’s darker than before. _Nighttime_. He heads back to his shitty hole in the wall. Unstraps Luanne and Reba. Scrapes out some new words to remember. _Don’t think too hard about them though._ Or the blood on the walls. Drinks. It falls through him. Sits down. Pretends to trance.

_Wants to die._

**_Can’t_**.

_He stands up._


	4. Jvelin — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I miss my son so much. Glad to have our good thicc dummy back and all, but JV was a delight.
> 
> Death must've been so quiet for him. :,)

Dying hadn’t been so bad.

Whatever it had been that ripped his throat out? _That_ was horrifying. But the _act_ of dying? Prettyokay. Better than _some_ of the things that had happened to him when he was alive.

Being dead was…it was the _first_ time in a _long_ while that he wasn’t _angry_. Wasn’t seeing red. He just…_was_. It was nice, actually. Like sleeping, but without the nightmares.

It also gave him some time to think over what his family had done, and what they had used _him_ to do. Which, of course, led to him feeling _more than a little_ guilty. Not that he could have prevented much of what they did! They had a pretty good stranglehold on his life! Knew all the right buttons to press and so on. But still…

_Thankfully_, the Dusk Mother was a kind goddess who believed in the power of penance and forgiveness. When he passed — _violently_ and with _very little_ warning for such a _very large_ animal — he found himself with the chance to _atone_ for what he had been forced to do. _Sure_, it might take forever. _Sure_, it was dirty work, trying to help a whole town split down the middle by Draculas and the like, but it was something _he chose to do._

And, like dying, _choosing_ to do something was novel, and he wanted to do it _as_ often as the Dusk Mother _allowed_ him to.

Even if it got him dusted.


	5. Jaina — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dudes of all genders? I've got a LOT of opinions about Jaina. I love her so much. She's bae.

She is Jaina Bronzebeard, the eldest, the bare-faced. She is Jaina Bronzebeard, the sword and shield and axe for her king. She is Jaina Bronzebeard, the forgotten, the silent, the shadow.

She is Jaina Bronzebeard and _her sister is dead._

Her sister, Gemma Bronzebeard, the jewel of a dying royal line. Her sister, Gemma Bronzebeard, the loud and brazen one who stands against their father and laughs. Her sister, Gemma Bronzebeard, who finds herself in an arranged marriage that she can spin into freedom. Her sister, Gemma Bronzebeard, who dated the only human under the mountain and has _terrible judgement _and also taste in men.

Her sister, Gemma Bronzebeard, was killed and it’s because of Hardwon Surefoot.

Hardwon Surefoot, the only human in Irondeep. Hardwon Surefoot, who was disliked by most dwarves on principle but didn’t let it get to him. Hardwon Surefoot, who left after a messy breakup with Gemma. Hardwon Surefoot, accompanied by a crick elf, a halfling boy, and an older halfling man. Hardwon Surefoot, on his knees, at her mercy.

Hardwon Surefoot, who loved her sister and would _never_ have hurt her, no matter _how_ hurt he might have been.

Her sister, Gemma Bronzebeard, killed for her husband-to-be and his inheritance weapon.

She is Jaina Bronzebeard, and _she_ is left behind to pick up the pieces. Behind the curtain. In the shadows. _Again_.


	6. Martha Toegold — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever just think about Bev's mom and cry? No? Just me? Aight then...
> 
> Have this and think about Bev's mom and cry with me.

She is a wife. It is her duty. Take care of the house. Take care of her husband. Take care of her son.

They forget that _before_ she was a wife, she was _clever_. She was _observant_. She was _someone_. Not that that has changed, it just has become less to her duties.

Her name is Martha Toegold and now she is a wife. No more, no less.

Her husband, though she loves him, is a stern man who does not know how to show love any longer. His walls are high and his eyes are hard but it is _war_ that sapped the warmth from him. When she married him, when they were young and he was _just_ a knight instead of the _captain_ of said knights, he was soft around the edges and clumsy in his affection. And then the War Against Asmodeus comes and goes and he has a new sharpness about him. Something about the fire and the combat has taken something from him and she cannot get it back.

She is a wife and when he cries out in the night and doesn’t let her touch him, body shaking as he stifles sobs and shies away from any additional stimuli, she feels _useless_. Martha Toegold feels useless.

Bev is a blessing and she wants the world for him. It’s a pity her husband is cracked and leaking and cannot seem to understand that this isn’t a war, that this is their son, that he needs love and affection. So she finds the brunt of telling Bev he’s loved, that he’s wanted, that he’s doing his best falls on her. Another duty. Wife and mother. The clever Martha Toegold once again falls on the wayside.

Bev comes back hurt. Her husband is arrested. It is a plot against _everyone_. Their city burns. They flee to Hill Holm. She watches Bev leave to fight a war. He’s _so young_. She doesn’t want him to become his father. She doesn’t want him to break and crack, irreparable and leaking all the good he holds wherever he walks.

She is a mother. It is her _duty_. To worry. To wait. To _listen_. She dreams of her husband—long gone and she was _so_ afraid it meant dead but _now_, she’d _rather_ he have _perished_—and he is hollow and cold. He is gone. She mourns.

Before she was a mother, she was a _wife_. Before she was a wife, she was _clever_. She hasn’t _stopped_ being so, it’s just fallen under the shadow of wife, of mother.

Martha Toegold watches the skies and waits, hands on daggers she hasn’t touched in years, and wonders if Bev is okay.

Because she is Martha Toegold, but she is _also_ a mother. They are not mutually exclusive and never were.


	7. Ulfgar — harpy-princet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ulfgar is sad.
> 
> I have a lot of complicated feelings for him but, in regards to him and Alanis and Thiala, it's sad.
> 
> I want him to get a happy ending. Doesn't have to be perfect, but a happy ending please.

He is a hero.

Fire and ice and pain and blood but he is _trying_, Morridan dammit, and isn’t that _enough_? Isn’t it? **_Isn’t it?!_**

He’s a hero and a fighter and a protector. He makes sure Alanis is casting and Thiala is healing. He hammers away. _That’s his job._

Asmodeus is dead but there’s more to the story. If he wasn’t blinded by black spots and red and phlegm and fury so _livid_ he could wade through it, he could make out the shape of the mystery.

He loves her, he thinks. _Alanis_, that is. He loves Thiala, too, but that’s a _different_ type of love. With Thiala it’s a sister-in-arms, a valkyrie, someone he can trust to keep his back safe. With Alanis, it’s like the fire she spews from her fingertips, a wild and burning sudden realization. Sharp and painful and _not_ unwanted. And it hurts to not know if she feels the same.

There is a choker around his neck and his mind is fog but he holds on as best he can to that light, that fire. To not think about her having _left_. To not think about Thiala, whispering in his ears, telling him to kill _anyone_ in his way.

He was a hero once.


	8. Apple Scrumper — fangirlsftw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I did her justice.
> 
> Apple is a hard one to pin and, sure, this is some of it, but also — for someone who got like...three episodes as a guest, I have a bad grasp on her as a character.
> 
> Brash, sure, and loud and proud. A braggart. Not above stealing or lying. But more than that? She needs someone to play off of for me to get more out of her.
> 
> *shakes fist* damn you Siobhan Thompson!
> 
> Do love me that beefy idiot barbarian gal tho.

For people who have done _so_ much, they’re _not that smart._

I mean, sure, Apple _herself_ isn’t smart, but she _knew_ things! She wasn’t a _complete_ knob!

But _these_ three morons, these three _complete_ muppets, thought _she_ was something special and, after helping her make back what she lost _and then some_, asked for _her_ help. These three assholes asked _her_, Apple Scrumper, to help _them_ save one of the Saviours of Bahumia, after handing her 500 bloody GP for just, _yanno_, playing a fucking _game_?

So of course she said yes. Of course she was gonna help them. It’s an opportunity, innit?

And then it comes and goes and these three _fucking_ idiots fall in combat—plus their weird dad dude who is just _so_ damn horned up for _some_ reason—so she faffs around for a bit and winds up _rich_.

These three heroes didn’t realize she had already pocketed half of one-twenty _plat_ and offered her _half_ of the _sixty_ plat _they did see_. So she was _swimming_ in it, which was gonna help the Field, _of course_, but also was gonna line her own pockets a bit. A gal’s gotta make ends meet after all. Tit for tat.

So yeah, _sure_, they’ve met two of the three Saviours of Bahumia. _Sure_, they’ve since apparently fucking gone on to try and fight _Ilsed_. But it doesn’t make them _any less stupid_. Loveable, trusting _morons_.

And it doesn’t make her like them any less either.


	9. Erlin — revtev

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Erlin. I also think he has self worth issues.
> 
> I am also, unfortunately, very very mean.
> 
> I am a monkey paw. One finger down. Please continue to ask of me.

Erlin is often uncertain. This, however, he is extremely certain of: he is the only one in his friend group that has no future in the Green Knights.

Derlin, while not exactly the most decorated of their troop, is sturdy. When he graduates the Green Teens, he’s probably gonna be a paladin and a protector. Probably on the Watch or in the Guard. Maybe even in the Knights proper. Plus he’s always willing to help, bend down and assist those who need it, and he’s got the best shield-work out of the four of them.

Cran is clever and fast and the best at traps. When they go camping, she’s the one that sets up the snares and makes sure wildlife can’t get at their food. She’s also reigning champion at Hide and Seek. She’s probably got a space in the rangers with Egwene but she’s more likely to be part of infiltration. The knife in the shadows.

Beverly is a born leader, not just because of his dad. He has this…charisma about him that makes him so easy to follow. And he’s good at everything he does and everything he tries. The odds of him becoming the next captain of the Green Knights is incredibly high and he’s a force to reckon with when it comes to his own paladin skills. He’s a good swordsman and a great caster and he believes in Pelor with every inch of him. He’s the ideal.

Out of all of them, of the four of their troop, Erlin is certain he’s the only one that doesn’t have any outstanding skills.

He’s not that great at swordplay. He’s not that good with a shield. He’s not stealthy or clever. He’s actually rather fragile. He’s not agile or fast. He’s not even that good at magic. He’s just…mediocre little Erlin Kindleaf.

Maybe one day that will mean something. Maybe one day that will change. But for now, what he can do, is support his friends as they go on to do great things.


	10. Jvelin (pt.2) and Ol Cobb — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I do doubles? Yes. Will I do more than one in one go. It all depends on my mood.
> 
> Would you like to be sad? No? Fucking monkeys paw dudes! ;)

Dying again, giving himself up so that Rosa could go home? That was the _nicest_ choice he’s ever made. No one expected _anything_ of him. No one wanted _anything_ of him. No one even said “What do _you_ think, Jvelin?” He just saw the chance and took it.

She deserved to continue on more than he did and, if he was being honest? He _liked_ the soft nothingness of the Dusk Mother’s realm. It was comforting. Quiet. _Alone_.

_A little lonely_.

It’s interesting that meeting those four— Moonshine and Beverly and Balnor and Deadeye—wound up meaning _so_ much to him. Considering that his previous interactions with people had been with his—_frankly_ abusive and _quite_ shitty—family, he was _pleasantly_ surprised how much he wound up loving being around them. But he would tolerate being lonely if it meant others were safe.

So he made his choice.

* * *

The sun is setting. This is both a metaphor _and_ the truth. The sun is setting on his life and also literally dipping below the horizon. The sun is setting on a decades-long battle against his past and also him n’ Jolene drinking to the good memories they had together.

“When we were younger,” Jolene slurs, a little too into her drink, “she would put mushrooms in’t my clothes? Like…lil caps in m'pants? And their - their gills’d leave lil dirty marks on my ass and she’d _giggle_. Did - did it with some pois'nous ones once and I couldn’t sit for weeks…”

“She bit me,” Cobb notes, “all th’ time. Drew blood. Liked t'watch me squirm but always kissed it better.”

“She called me names.”

“_Oh_?”

“Green-ear. Rat-catcher. _Bitch_.”

“Last one ain’t so bad.”

“_Mmm_…it was when _she_ said it…”

“_Mmm_.” They drink some more in uncomfortable silence. Then he adds, “I miss her.”

“_Me too_.”

The sun is setting, casting blood over crick water.


	11. Matty Big Crits — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was too fun and now I wanna make a DND character with the folk hero background but it's like this. They just got a nickname from doing one cool thing and it spiraled out of control so now they just have to stagger into being a hero for real, tired af.
> 
> Thanks nonny, it was fun to write.

It had been a fluke. _It had been a fluke. It had been a fluke._

But this beefy dude—_Hardwon Surefoot_, he later learns from an excited refugee with stars in their tired eyes—is grinning at him like he won the lottery and thrusts greatness upon him and he flounders and drowns and _no no no,_ _it had been a fucking fluke._

“Matty Big Crits” he gets called, like that means _anything_ to him.

His name is _Matthias_ and _it was a fucking fluke _but you try telling _anyone_ that now.

(_Gods above_, even his friends are calling him that, though the way their mouths curl up when they do it is less _reverent_ and more taking the piss out of him. Still. _Still!_)

_It had been a fluke _but here he is, elbow to elbow with a grinning ratfolk and a bearfolk and a couple dozen survivors of the Purge of Galaderon and they call out “_Matty_!” and he winces and grins and waves because they need it.

_It had been a fluke_ though.

(They _need_ that staple, that _hero_, that figure to _aspire_ to. _Gods_, that he could convince them otherwise. To pick _anyone else_. Please, just pick _anyone_ else.)

_It had been a fluke_ but he smiles.

His name is Matthias. Matthew. Matt. _Never Matty._

(of House Crit)


	12. Tonathan Tinkle — fangirlsftw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the concept of practical magic versus theoretical magic. It's a neat thing to look into, yanno?
> 
> Warning: canon character near-death

Reading about something and _knowing_ something are different. Knowing _about_ something and practicing it are different. Tonathan is a little shell-shocked if he’s being honest.

He’s practiced Spare the Dying on a homunculus in the _Academy_. He’s read every theory as to how the necromantic ritual stops the entropy of the form, basically putting the person in a stasis of not-dead but not-alive. He’s even found a way to shorten the incantation.

That didn’t prepare him for having to send out Barnaby with the spell attached to bring Beverly from the brink.

Classes don’t prepare you for the way that a body looks when the spirit is trying to leave. Books don’t have checklists or diagrams for how many ways someone’s legs can bend if you’ve shattered the bones in them. Lectures don’t have any sort of advice for dealing with the nauseating shock of seeing a child almost die. Of seeing a friend almost die.

Knowing _isn’t_ understanding. Practice _isn’t_ application. _Magic is a process._

(He’s mostly glad Beverly isn’t dead. Some nights he still has panic dreams about his body just plummeting from the Watchman’s Tower like a rock. He hits the ground and doesn’t get back up. Or he _does_, but he is _wrong_. It’s _all_ bad and he wishes there was a way to forget without losing the experience that afforded him.)

Now he knows. Now he has applied. Now he has lived. Now he waits. There’s a war coming and no amount of reading will help. He just has to know he won’t be ready for it and hope that helps.


	13. Beverly Toegold IV — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always use Bev as a foil to measure Beverly Toegold IV against and it works but I wish I could do more interesting things with him.
> 
> Do you ever wonder if something in him is irreparable or if he just made bad decisions. He's not a good person but he must have tried to he a decent father. I wanna be hopeful but...I also don't like the bad dad trope in dnd.
> 
> Lucanus is a gift. Blessum, the poor sod. He is one of two good canon dads — the other being Balnor — and he should be praised for it.
> 
> Did his faith every wander before Akarot? Was his decision rash or desperate or calculated. "I took the deal because I knew you would be okay" is loaded but also...also........
> 
> Idk.....

When Bev is born, there is a moment when something in his chest jostles free, catching against his ribs and clattering down his spine, and he weeps. Martha holds him close to her chest, bleary and exhausted, and he’s so small. So fragile. Beverly Toegold IV wants to sob and thank Pelor for every moment that has led to this but he can’t.

Instead, he gazes down at his impossibly tiny son, and smiles. Because he has something to protect, more than ever. More than duty. More that country and crown.

Beverly Toegold V—Bev to almost everyone—is so like him and so not. He is so like Martha and so not. He is both and neither of them. He is an enigma and Beverly Toegold IV wants to catalogue every moment of it.

Bev is mischievous and wild. Bev is inquisitive and dutiful. Bev is kind and understanding. Bev has his hair. Bev has Martha’s eyes. Bev has both their hearts in his small little hands.

Sometimes it hurts to look at him.

Brothers lost to war. Brothers lost to foul and fickle fate. Brothers lost to the fallout of devils and heroes past. Bev is the last branch of his family and it sends sharp pains in Beverly Toegold IV’s chest sometimes. He has lost so much. The words are peat in his mouth, burying him deeper in guilt and resentment.

Can he say he loves his son when he won’t speak the words to his face? Can he say he loves his wife when he pushes her away in his times of need? Can he say he loves the world that took so much from him and gave so little back? Can he say he loves a crown that is corrupt? Can he say he loves a god that allowed someone like Thiala to ruin everything?

The word catches on his teeth, in his lungs, under his skin.

Can he say he loves anything?


	14. Lydia — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Lydia. Have I said I love Lydia? Coz I love Lydia.
> 
> I feel like she has a lot to offer in terms of interesting stories. Also, considering that she told Hardwon that she wanted him to have "everything I never did" I kinda modeled her growing up in the Chosen after a weird mix of some cults I'm aware of.
> 
> Gotta love the coming-of-age ceremony where you slaughter a helpless village when they don't convert and then are given a last name. :)

Her name is Lydia. She has no last name. They don’t get a last name until they’re full Chosen. That’s just how it’s done.

Her name is Lydia. She has dark hair, long and straight, and piercing dark eyes. She has a sharp profile that some of the other children liken to a bird of prey. She has long limbs and a soft voice and too much patience. She is good with a rapier. Better still with a broadsword. When she gets older, she wants to try a greatsword.

Her name is Lydia. Under the guiding hand of Brother Galad, she is picked to be a part of a mission. Some folks in a town _just_ southeast of Galaderon, down the coast, are having issues with pirates and the tides. Brother Galad says they’re going to drive off the pirates and pray to the Light to turn the tides in their favor. Then they’ll offer conversions for any who see the beauty in the Light.

Her name is Lydia Hawke. The pirates were slaughtered in their sleep. They were unworthy. Lydia took many of them down with a claymore she had been given by Brother Galad. The coastal folk were grateful for the pirates being gone but did not wish to convert. Brother Galad _implored_ they change their mind, that the Light would forgive them for being tempted by their heathen worship of the false god Kord. They _still_ refused and lashed out. The town is barren now and Lydia is a Chosen in full.

Her name is Lydia Hawke and she is face-to-face with a loud pirate in a gaudy hat. He laughs in her face and parries her every blow. He and his crew have been taking from the Chosen and, as such, have been marked as a threat. She has been given a platoon to lead in order to root him and his crew out. Now they are fighting and she is _not_ winning and it _different_ because he calls her pretty and she doesn’t know what to say to that.

Her name is Lydia Hawke and _his_ name is Elias the Stormborn. He worships Kord in loud battle. He likes to drink and swear. He is good at tying knots and _bad_ at darts. He is _infuriating_ and keeps showing up where he’s not wanted and she keeps crossing swords with him and _yet_ neither of them have died.

Her name is Lydia Hawke and she may be in love with him. _This is a terrifying realization._

Her name is Lydia and she has cast away the surname and mantle she’s been given. She doesn’t want to be a part of this fight any more. Not when it’s a _slaughter_. Not when it’s _immoral_. Not when it’s _so_ one-sided. Elias offers his hand—offered his shoulder, offered his ear, offered his _heart_—and she takes it. She flees to safety. She prays to a new god, _any one that will listen_, for a happy ending.

Her name is Lydia Stormborn and it is her wedding day. She is happy.


	15. Stunkbug & Gunkbog — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't sure where I was going when I started this. Wasn't sure where I went after it was done.
> 
> Here it is lmao. Hope it works lol.

He hadn’t been good enough. That’s what that gnome man said every time he stopped by to poke and prod at Gunkbog with knives and needles and magic. “Not good enough.” “Failure.” “Broken.”

“Not like your brother,” the gnome said, on the other side of the glass, “who is doing everything I need. Even if he’s eccentric.”

He didn’t know what eccentric meant, but it had to be good if the gnome man said the word like that. What little bit of himself that still was—buried under magic and pain and science and snakes and so much hurt that it’s blinding—felt happy. His brother was okay.

Or, at least, not like him.

He is less himself every day. More the magic of that gnome man. More the science of that gnome man. More the powdered stuff they fill his lungs with and dissolve in the liquid he’s in and drown him in. Sometimes all he is is doing what he’s told and green and red and black and nothing.

Maybe one day he can play with his brother again. Maybe one day he can show him the new star-shapes he’s found. Maybe they can share a meal together. He lets go and becomes not himself. It’s easier that way.

He hopes his brother is okay.


	16. Akarot — fangirlsftw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got the request the day 83 dropped. Thought "I don't think she knows why this is funny." Waited until she had listened and then posted this.
> 
> I got yelled at in the best way.
> 
> Gotta love a good villain. :>

Akarot considers himself a purveyor of fine things. A collector, even. From fine robes of the highest quality drider silk to books bound in celestial flesh with pages of dryad pulp, Akarot only surrounded himself with things that were worthy. That had worth.

Ilsed, for a while, had worth. He was a smokescreen to hide behind, to keep Asmodeus — damn him to dying a thousand deaths, his Divine Heart stolen in the fury of battle, far out of Akarot’s reach — from commanding him to cease his machinations. Even after Asmodeus was deposed and disposed of, Ilsed was a name and a face that he had worn around Bahumia and, well, didn’t he owe the poor sod the joy of hearing his name on so many people’s mouths? He’d wanted notoriety, hadn’t he? And Akarot had promised.

With his soul spread across Gladeholm, eyeless servants spying on these new heroes who were giving Thiala a hard time, he hand-crafted a perfect body to tempt the paladin boy. He had to have him, after all. A young child already magically potent, physically fit, and inducted into Galaderon’s Green Knights at his age? Prestigious and talented.

They killed that Avatar. A prime hollow body, an excellently crafted Death Knight with just enough of a personality all its own to be tempting and enough of his own self that he was certain he would win out. That Avatar even managed to get the boy’s father but as they descended into the Hells, that was taken from him as well. And, well, if he couldn’t have that body, he sure would enjoy breaking it.

(He remembers the careful crafting of a modified Feeblemind, meant to wipe the memory of Ilsed confessing to working with a lich from their minds as well as taking some of that wasted talent from them. How nice it felt to know he was ruining their lives and adjusting the tides of fate for them. That he was making them less.)

As he prepared for his ritual — sped up because those three heroes were moving faster than he expected — he lavished in the thought of breaking them. Of making them beg for him to have mercy. He wondered what their faces would look like. How hollow their gaze would be.

He wondered if he’d like it more than drawing the pleading soul of Ilsed out of his body.

He wondered if he’d like it more than forcing Marabelle to sign her soul away for power, watching her become a corrupted force of nature against her will.

He wondered if he’d like it more than the pain in the face of that boy’s father as he took a deal he knew he couldn’t escape from.

He wondered if he’d like it more than wearing the skin of gods.


	17. Erdan — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always loved Erdan. I love necromancers who aren't evil coz "durr hurr necromancy bad" like revivify ain't some necromancy spell. (It is a necromancy spell and, in fact, the only spell to bring someone back from death that isn't necromancy, is Reincarnate, which is transmutation, so HA!)
> 
> Anyway, trauma, amirite??? :D  
Warning: descriptions of gore and violence

He doesn’t know _why_, but his chest seizes when he tries to reanimate people. He knows he _can_—he was one of the premier necromancy students of Gladeholm’s _University of Arcane Arts and Sciences_—and he has no issue when they’re animals or plants or monsters, but when the corpse or remains he’s supposed to be animating or reconstituting are _humanoid_? His hands shake, his heart races, and his world narrows to a pinhole, dark and empty. All he can think about is cracked ribs and torn flesh and teeth and red and hands on his as they crumble to chunks of meat and slurry _and_—

Lucanus shakes him out of it every time but there’s…it’s _frustrating_ to be so hindered.

Not like Ilsed, who bypassed the need for verbal components with the grace of a sorcerer, waving thin hands over remains and corpses to bring them back to a state of existence. Not like Ilsed, who could stare down at a pile of viscera and not even blink. Not like Ilsed, who had the eyes of _every_ teacher in the University.

Not like Ilsed, who did _so many _terrible things during the War Against Asmodeus.

Perhaps he should be grateful he was hindered in that way. Perhaps he should consider his debilitation as a manifestation of his conscience. Perhaps he should be glad that he can cast _Raise Dead_ on people without much pause now. Perhaps he should thank Sylvanus that he has the morals to be a _decent_ necromancer.

And when he finds himself shaking now, it is not Lucanus who steers him away from ghosting panic attacks and memories of something he can barely see, but Bubbles. Bubbles, who was the first thing he reanimated in almost a century, and who was his anchor while he was separated from the one person who understood him the most.

_Perhaps_ he should be grateful he had friends instead of raw talent, considering what happened with Ilsed.

_Perhaps_…

(Red eyes and dark hands and teeth in his side. Ribs cracking and his voice is hard as he casts _Hold Person_. Lucanus, face horrified. Ilsed, apologizing. The chunks of meat that had been his parents and he wants them back _so bad_. So bad he’d be willing to—)

_(To—)_

** _(To—?)_ **


	18. Ilsed (pt2), Galad Rosell, & Beverly Toegold V and IV — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love taking multi-part ones coz I can play with many boys.
> 
> Ilsed: he's been watching this whole time, unable to interact. That's a form of hell, right?
> 
> Galad: lots of bible allegory but also, he's p much a cultist so it's fiiiiine. You can see my Baptist roots here, oop.
> 
> Bev IV/V: It's not child abuse but you wish it was so then at least you could stop it.

He hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He _just_ wanted to help.

(_Lies. You wanted, more than anything, to be noticed._)

But that wasn’t _him_. That was a lich wearing his skin, using _his name_. He only wanted to ease Erdan’s suffering and bring his parents back.

(_Your name, their lips. It’s exactly what you asked for. And Erdan doesn’t suffer because Erdan doesn’t remember._)

It’s like watching through a fishbowl; he can watch and hear but he can’t _interact_, even if he wants to. And he _does_. So many lives are ruined by that _thing_ wearing his face.

(_No one remembers Ilsed the student. Everyone speaks of Ilsed the Necromancer. The one who assisted the Legendary Heroes and betrayed them in one move. The one who ascended to the throne of the Nine Hells. You’re nothing and reviled. An enigma. Isn’t that interesting?_)

He just wanted to be of _some_ worth. He wanted to do _something_ noteworthy. Not this. _Never_ this.

(_But you are of worth. You’re worth a whole Plane of Existence. Two, if this goes well. The whole Planar System if it is exceptional. And you are remembered. Even if it’s the last thing on their lips, there are thousands of folks who have had your name on their lips._)

(_Be proud, Ilsed, for the false idol you’ve created. Watch them bow to the golden calf and bleed among the burning bushes._)

(_No one will forget you now._)

* * *

_"I want my mother back_ you sonovabitch.”

Galad inhales sharply, choking up black bile and clotted blood. His hands reach for his throat and find only pale skin, cold, but whole. Wiping his mouth, he takes breath after shaky breath, reveling in the fact that he’s alive.

And then he knows he’s not.

His Light, his goddess Thiala, calls to him with Her holy voice and it _burns_ him. Tears his form apart from the inside out. He is marked as undead. _Unholy_. But She names him nonetheless.

“**Galad Rosell, my champion,**” She says, and each word is stigmata, whips across his back and his soul. “**You have another chance.**”

“_Anything_.” There has never been anyone who has loved Her as much as Galad does, so when he says this, he _means_ it. He would wash Her feet with his hair if it meant She knew the extent of his devotion.

“**Take Shadowfell. Take the monsters within and command them. Move them to wipe those who would rebuke Me from the map.**” Her words are fire, burning, tearing, be-not-afraid. “**Only when Bahumia is united will Ilsed fall. Only when Bahumia is united under Me will it be safe.**”

“_Of course_, my Light!” Almost as an afterthought, he asks, question a pillar of salt, burning against a dying landscape. “How will I do this?”

“**I have given you form here. Pale and undead, so they will not bother you. Infiltrate their ranks, depose their King, and take his crown for Me and My cause.**”

“_Thank you._” He is weeping blood and ichor. His body leaks death with each holy proclamation. He is a fig tree, beaten by every syllable She speaks.

“**And take this with you. It will be useful**.” A dark chain materializes in front of him and he grabs on to it with one gauntleted hand. As he clutches the chain, a bound spirit manifests on the other end and he can’t help but laugh at the stuttering echo of a person that he’s been gifted. “**Do not fail.**”

“Of course, my Light.” She would have him, unholy leper, at Her table? He is so blessed by Her love. And She gave him a fine gift!

He yanks the chain attached to Lydia Stormborn and smiles. He has a kingdom to take. She has willed it so.

* * *

They worry about young Beverly.

Not that they think Captain Toegold would hurt his son. _Never_ that! They have nothing but the _utmost respect_ for their captain! He treats everyone the same.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? That he treats _everyone_ equally. _Including_ his son.

Young Beverly gets a pat on the shoulder when other children get hugs. Young Beverly gets criticism where other children would get praise. Young Beverly gets swordfighting lessons where other children would get music lessons or just time to be kids.

Captain Toegold is raising a soldier, not a son, no matter how hard Martha pushes back the other way.

They worry about Young Beverly.

They worry he won’t be a child.

They worry he will go off to war young and die young and that will be the way of the Toegold line.

They worry that he will take his father’s mantle because that’s what’s expected and neither of them will be able to communicate why it’s fucked up.

They worry that their captain knows something they don’t. That he can see something brewing in the distant future. Something they’re blind to.

They worry that he’s preparing to die.

They worry for young Beverly but also for Captain Toegold.


	19. Beverly Toegold V — fangirlsftw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came with a Gorgug request as well but heres the Bev one.
> 
> I think a lot about magic and senses and how they have to feel different or smell different or what have you. I think a lot about magic in general. Too much for someone who lives in a world without magic lmao.

Once, Hardwon asked the two of them what doing magic felt like. “Not that I’m, yanno, interested in learning or anything,” he bluffed, scoffing and thumbing his nose, “but like, having done R. Cane I was wondering if it was different for you.”

Moonshine took almost no time in answering. “It’s like y'reach into the earth and it reaches back. Like breathing in, but the breath is magic n'the exhalin’ is, yanno, doin’ magic?”

But for Bev it’s different and harder to put into words.

How does he explain that he reached out and asked for help? That his magic was borrowed? That he prayed and light filled his body with warmth and power and then he asked it to do what he needed?

Moonshine seemed to note that her magic was a redirection of what already existed. That she just moved the mud from one bucket to another, as it were. But it was so difficult to conceptualize doing that. Telling his magic to do something.

_Pelor_, he would ask, _please allow me to heal. Pelor_, he would beg, _please allow me to stop my friend from getting hurt. Pelor_, he would call, _please allow me to destroy this enemy that would wish us ill._

The magic is in him, but it is not his and this is not a bad thing but _but **but—**_

The smallest, most childish part of him is worried that they’ll think it is. That he is less because he asks and borrows.

“My magic is warmth and Pelor’s grace,” he settles on. It’s not a lie. It’s not the truth. A happy grey. “It does as it’s willed.” Also true. Also a lie. Grey _grey **grey.**_

And they _trust_ him.

And it’s more a _lie_ than the _truth_.

He can live on borrowed magic if it helps. Doesn’t matter in the end. He can’t take it with him anyway.

And his magic, warm and bright and borrowed, is a soft, light grey.


	20. Hardwon and Balnor — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you need to be alone with someone.
> 
> I love Hardwon, did you know that?

There is solidarity in being alone with another person. While Hardwon loves Beverly and Moonshine—and he _does_, with every fibre of his being—sometimes they can get to be a _little too much_ and he needs a moment to himself. That’s when Balnor easily becomes his favorite person.

The two of them are similar, to a degree. Both tired. Both fighters. Both out of place by varying degrees. Both liking a little silence from time to time. So Hardwon seeks out where Balnor is when he needs quiet. And, like clockwork, Balnor just lets him exist in his space.

Hardwon, cleaning his hammer of gore, quietly replaying how he wasn’t fast enough and Beverly took a hard hit again. Balnor, back against a solid object, thinking about what is to come after all this, what kind of life he’s going to make for himself. Hardwon, passing a flask of crick water to Balnor after a deep huff, wordlessly commiserating. Balnor handing over a fairly dry—by _his_ standards—sandwich without another word, knowing exactly when they can stomach food again.

When he wants love and affection and crowds, physical touch and words of affirmation, he seeks out Beverly and Moonshine. But when he wants the quiet knowledge of someone’s presence and the space to work his shit out, he heads to Balnor.

Like a binary system, they orbit around the things they don’t say because _why bother_? Their light shines bright anyway, and that’s all that matters. And they don’t need to talk about it in the first place. Not until everything is done. Then, _maybe_, they can spring for a therapist.

(Probably not though.)


	21. Hardwon Surefoot — meiwks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really do genuinely, unabashedly, fully love Hardwon Surefoot.

So he _might_ have exaggerated a bit when he came to Moonstone. He _also_ might have been bloviating slightly with regards to his talents. It’s fine. _It’s fine._ So long as he gets the job done, lying on his resume is fine, _right_?

“Pride of the Dwarfanage”? Like that place had _any_ pride to give. Just a bunch of scared kids moving from the bottom to slightly higher up. Shunted into the workforce with no ceremony. Pride in _themselves_, sure, in their _race_, but he was a tall-dwarf. He was human. “Pride of” nothing save his own deep desire to be something.

“Bastard of the Mountain”? Okay, _not_ a lie. Bastard? They’re _all_ bastards if you think about it, but Hardwon especially wasn’t known for being too patient. Got into more scraps than anyone else he knew so having the word bastard spat at him became a comfort. It meant he was _known_.

“Mined farther in Irondeep than anyone before” well _only_ if you consider upwards to be _farther_. Boots of spider climb are expensive and rope and pitons don’t hold up too well when you’re knocking parts of the wall out, so most mining was ground level or lower. Being a couple feet taller than most other miners meant that a younger Hardwon had the teenage need to show off and proved to his superiors he could mine above everyone else—even if he near busted his head open when he got cocky about it—so he’s not lying there. Just not wholly the truth. A stretch or _skew_, if you would.

But even after seeing him fail again and _again_ and **_again_**, even knowing he was a bit of a blowhard, Moonshine and Beverly stuck around and fucking cheered him on. And that felt…_right_ in a way. Coz friends did that for each other, _right_? Lifted each other up? Made sure everyone knew they were appreciated and loved and the like?

For the first time of many in the upcoming months, Hardwon wondered if this is what family was.

Coz if it was, then _damn_ wasn’t he blessed to have these two as his family. They were _fucking great_.

And one day maybe he’d be able to say he loved them but for now? _Ehh_, just keep em alive and running. Worry about the sappy shit later.

(_Hero of Bahumia _has a nice ring, but _Big Brother_ has a better one.)


	22. Alanis — QuietChelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's something about ADHD brain that lends itself to combat stream of consciousness? It's the run-ons and repetition but regardless, I'm good at it.
> 
> Hey Murph? Take part in my "let Alanis have a happy ending" challenge you coward.

She’s going to fix her mistake. She’s going to fix her and Thiala and Ulfgar’s mistake. She and these four _wonderful _idiots are going to fix what _they _fucked up decades ago.

Why does it feel like they’re going to repeat their mistakes?

(What do you do with the Crown when he’s dead? What do you do if you fail? This is the last timeline. No second chances. What will you do? _What will you do?_)

Her mind is going a million miles an hour and she can barely remember the spells she stocked—

(Counterspell, of course, _always _Counterspell because he’s a lich. Teleport to get them there and then, what else? What else did you prepare? What spells do you have? _What did you bring?_)

“_Moonshine!_” She calls, because it’s easier to defer to someone else. She can focus on keeping them back, keeping them alive, keeping the gods in place and fucking up this stupid fucking warped ritual that this _dumb fucking **lich**_is doing.

From across the battlefield, lightning flying from her hands and tearing through Akarot’s mages like paper, Moonshine nods and through the rapport spore line she can hear a gentle, “_Gotcha!_”

(A tarrasque, Tiamat, Jubilex, Frazz Ur’bluu, Yeenoghu, and Demogorgon. Fuck _fucking **fuck**_. If any of them escape it will be fucking terrible but less so than if _all _of them do. Keep them back. _Keep them back._ Fix this. _Fix this._ Fuck _fucking **fuck**_.)

She can hear the battle, the jeering of those four assholes laughing at Akarot to combat their growing fear, and the communication through the rapport spores line. She can smell the sulfur of the Nine Hells and the burning searing melting flesh of Ilsed’s face. She can feel the crackle of arcane on her skin.

It shifts.

“_What do I **do?!**_” She can’t think, can’t breathe, _can’t make this decision_. She can’t _she can’t **she can’t—!**_

(It’s Power Word Kill. It’s _Beverly_. He won’t survive that hit. _Counterspell_. You stocked it for this exact reason. Counterspell. _Counterspell. **Counterspell!**_)

Her hand lashes out and Bev is _safe _and she can feel her chest clench as he cries out but he’s worth more than trouble later. Enough of the mages are gone for her to be able to be lax on the barrier. 

(I’m sorry. I’ve done it again. I’m sorry._ I’m sorry.** I’m sorry. Fuck **fucking **fuck.**_)

The rest of the battle is a blur because she just has to keep the barrier up and Moonshine is calling out orders—”Counterspell _always_!”—and the mages are gone and _only three_ got out. Akarot keeps going for Bev but he’s not gone yet and she has to trust that they’ll be safe and clever.

A memory—Thiala wielding holy light, healing and damaging in equal measures. Ulfgar screaming fury and attacking again and _again _and _**again**_. _Her_, casting from the rear, Counterspell, Mage Armor, Shield, a thousand others. Spiritual Guardians and Holy Weapon and Divine Favor. Shields and magic and swords. They didn’t need to speak, just perform their macabre dance. Kill Asmodeus, kill Ilsed, make everyone safe.

This is _different_. The battlefield isn’t silent, but filled with dry laughter and panic and quips. They’re tearing into Akarot, making him less by cutting him down verbally. His threat isn’t any less, but they feel better. They pick each other up, do dumb things, support and heal one another. Each of them can revive any of them. Each of them communicates and coordinates. Even in combat, they’re a unit. A family.

(Even if you pretended, there was space. _She _left. _You _left _him_. Akarot never planned to _really _help. It was tactics and _this isn’t_. Protect it. Keep it alive. Keep _them _alive.)

And they win. _They win. **They win.**_

It’s not over but they _win_.

And the Crown.

(Take it. Fix things. Take it _take it **take it**_. Don’t let _any _of them pay for your error. _Your _mistake. Fix things take it _fix things take it **take it **take it **don’t let them take it for you.**_)

These four assholes—coz she’ll count Balnor now, this weird brave dad who has decided to _make _something of his time here—are debating what to do and Moonshine picks up the Crown and something in her tightens.

(No no no _don’t let her_ she can’t she _can’t she **can’t she can’t!**_)

And she is speaking and they’ve put _so much thought_ into this and oh, _fuck_, they’re scared of doing what Alanis and Thiala and Ulfgar did. She wants to do good—they _all _do—and she has an idea but it’s not a solution, _not really_. Nothing will be a “solution”, they’ve realized. And Alanis makes a suggestion.

Trial period is _fine_. They killed Akarot, they can off Pendeghast easy as pie. Thirty days to take care of the errant Hollow Gods. Thirty days to fucking deal with Thiala. Thirty days to see if this works.

(More of a choice than _you _had. No time, no options, nothing. Pick up, run, lick your wounds. Let Akarot take the Crown. Let Thiala take Asmodeus’ Heart. Let Ulfgar leave with Rot. Ruin _everything_.)

Trial period. Thirty days. Everyone is alive. It could have been _worse_.

(Did better than us. Did better than those that came before. No more decisions for other people. They can do it because they’re not doing it alone.)


	23. Ol' Cobb (pt. 2) — harpy-princet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr is a hellsite. Formatting on Tumblr sucks massive dick.
> 
> Anyway, I want Giant Wars lore please and thank you Murph.

Ol Cobb has lived a _long_ time. He’s seen the rise and fall of towns, two distinct wars, and more births and deaths than anyone save an elf might be privy to. Even still, he’s tired.

The Giant Wars had torn through Bahumia and left a _horrifying_ scar on the people and the land. The prejudice against giants and giantkin was deep-seated and ever-present, even though most folks who’d even remember the actual war are all elves and giants and their kin anyway. Most folk growing up just knew what their folks told them, and so on. It was a game of telephone and the echoes reached out too far, too distorted to be of use any more. More destructive than they should be.

Then there had been Marabelle and what had occurred there. After the Giant Wars, after Marabelle and Jolene and hisself fought for them and theirs, everything fell apart. Marabelle and her anger, Jolene succeeding her to be Mee Maw, the fight, the _thing_ that came back wearing Marabelle.

They had plans and, just like everything else, it kinda went to pot as soon as it had the chance.

After that it was the War Against Asmodeus and the shit that went down there. Between keeping Asmodea tamped down, convincing the high elves to give a rat’s ass about the world at large, and caring for their own, there was no time. No time to wait. No time to breathe. _No time at all._

And just when he thought it was _over_? _Just_ when he felt that he could take a breath and call it quits, the whole shit with the Rot started and it’s just one thing after another.

Younguns should have the grace and space to grow at their own rate. Kids shouldn’t have to adjust their overalls and saunter out like they know who their daddy is just coz the world is falling apart. Kids shouldn’t see what their Mee Maw is shouldering and think that they have to flee into danger to avoid becoming that person, that responsibility. Kids shouldn’t have to wait for things to come down round their ears, worried. The world should be sturdy and solid and calm.

It ain’t, but it _should be._

And _Melora_, Cobb is _so tired_. He wants to rest. He wants a break.

He wants to no longer _need_ to fight.

Hopefully _this_ time will be it. Melora willing, this will be the _last_ great war he’ll _ever_ have to see come and go.

And the next generation of younguns will be able to sleep easy.


	24. Pendeghast — QuietChelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love me an ineffectual villain.
> 
> Pendergreens, my idiot son-adjacent asshole. You better not rescind on your shit or they will kill you.

Life ain’t black and white. Nothin is. But moreso than life, people ain’t black and white neither. Take, for example, Pendeghast the Betrayer. Good ol’ Pendergreens.

He’s evil. Empirical fact. Boy would kick a puppy if he thought he could get away with it, royally fucked over her brother in a very literal sense, and would sell his own mother for one goddamn Non Branded Cheese Poof. Not a damn good bone in his body—not that she’s ever seen him in person, though she can take an educated guess as to exactly what he looks like.

But he ain’t a bad person to talk to?

Schlub? Sure. Not a moral compass? Absolutely. The person you wanna run your plan by in case he agrees, in which case you change it because if Pendergreens thinks it’s good, you fucked up? One hundred percent.

He’s evil, sure, but a type of evil that’s tolerable in small doses and supremely easy to overthrow. He’s not the unbearably self-serving evil of Galad Rosell. He’s not the corrupting evil of Akarot. He’s just a shit guy with shit beliefs and a shit attitude.

And, comparably? Far better than the others.

(But she doesn’t trust him to do it without a Geas and she doesn’t trust him to hold himself to it so a thirty day trial period is well and good for now.)


	25. Found Family — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a character thing so much as a characters thing???
> 
> As a big ol aro/ace, I love found family with all my shit. Found family? Best family. So ofc I wanted to look at their own understanding of love.
> 
> Bev is young enough that he falls in love slowly so, to suddenly know you love someone, is buckwild. Especially if it's not love love, but like parent love. Family love.
> 
> Hardwon is so unsure of what love and family is that his love is slow and piecemeal and then the inciting incident and "oh". Love. But not the same as Gemma. Hm...
> 
> Moonshine loves so freely that contextualizing her love for the other Boobs as something possessive but not bad is what matters. She loves them, full stop. But she loves them for her. They are hers.
> 
> Considering my note on love languages has 100+ notes, this request makes sense.

Beverly loves Hardwon and Moonshine and that is strange and wonderful and achingly right all at once.

Realizing his love for them is not like falling in love with Erlin. It’s not the slow and sinking realization; the little things you notice that add together make a bigger picture. It’s much more sudden and much more jarring. No less wonderful, but still, it’s a sharp swing and a gut-punch. Leaves him breathless with the knowledge.

Hardwon carries him from the Watchtower to Galaderon in a small backpack, eyes fixed forward on the destination. He doesn’t complain about the task at hand, just asking for directions from time to time. He just buckles down and helps this kid that he’s known for all of a few weeks.

Pain blurring his vision, Beverly buries the frustration in himself under the worry that his dad will be disappointed in him. That his mom will be disappointed in him. That Hardwon will be disappointed in him. That—

Oh?

_Oh._

_Hm…_

His town is burning behind him and his world is crashing down and he can’t breathe. For all that they’ve managed to do, for all the people they’ve managed to save, he’s worried for Cran and Durlin and his dad. For people he knew growing up and wanted to be safe.

He curls up in a bunk and sleeps, fitfully. His body won’t rest, still on high alert. His brain keeps suggesting that maybe, just maybe, someone else is on the ship and they might try and kill his friends? When he does manage to pass out—more from exhaustion than from actually managing to sleep—his dreams are red and gold and white and black and which one is good is not the one you would think.

He wakes to someone brushing hair away from his face and humming a low tune. They press a kiss into his forehead, right where his new scar is, and he smells soft earth and spices and alcohol. Bleary, not quite awake, he mutters a quiet “love you” to their retreating form. Moonshine audibly smiles as she goes to do whatever she does when she’s done trancing.

When he wakes, memory still a little foggy, he finds that he meant it. Means it.

_Huh…_

* * *

Hardwon hasn’t had a home. _Fuck_, he wouldn’t even consider _Irondeep_ home; just a place to live until he was old enough to leave. But there’s something right about being near Beverly and Moonshine that he thinks might be what home is.

It’s like noticing the tide’s come in too late, realizing the whole scope of it.

Bev asks them to sleep with him their first night in Galaderon and it shakes something loose. Bev introduces Hardwon with wide-eyed excitement to people he knows and his chest clenches. Bev becomes angry on Hardwon’s behalf and his throat closes off.

Bev brings him back and the phrase “my brother” digs its hooks in Hardwon and, _oh yeah_, _that’s_ what that feeling is.

Moonshine cooks for them and tells them tales about her home, smiling and laughing like she’s letting them in on a secret. Moonshine spits bile and insults at the man that made Hardwon an orphan. Moonshine does shots with him when he’s sad, not pressing for him to talk, just giving him space.

Moonshine, hand on his knee, telling him that he shouldn’t take a deal that sounds like honey and flypaper. That whatever would come back wouldn’t be Gemma. That she wasn’t gone so long as he said her name with reverence.

He wouldn’t say it’s like what he had with Gemma but…comparable. _Adjacent_. He feels _complete_ around her.

It’s a novel feeling, for sure, but one he likes enough to not prod at.

* * *

Moonshine loves like the rain. She loves like the wind. She loves like the earth. Freely and without abandon.

Falling in love with Beverly and Hardwon is as easy as breathing. Accepting the inherent selfishness of her love for them is much harder.

Beverly is resting against her in the Crick. They’re maybe a day away from dealing with Marabelle and the whole Rot thing is really getting to him. His face is angelic as he dreams but, for a moment, his features pinch as if he’s dreaming of something foul. His breathing picks up. She presses her forehead against his and tries to project sunshine and rain and warmth through the dormant rapport spore line she has with him. He breathes easier. So does _she_.

As the tightness in her chest lets go, she frowns. For the briefest of moments, a singular word occupied her thoughts and it was startling.

“_Mine_.”

Moonshine wakes from the dream with Marabelle and the sour feeling of her Rot beneath her skin is all-consuming for a moment. Jealous and anger and bitterness flood her veins. She looks at Hardwon and wants to hurt him. Make him just…_go away._ So she can have a go at Luna. So she can have Beverly to herself. So she won’t have to try so hard.

He rolls over in his sleep, snoring around a mouthful of his beard and it’s _enough_.

The screaming feeling of protectiveness that courses through her jolts her awake. She looks at Hardwon sleeping and feels joy and love and that dark undercurrent of “_mine_” and feels relief.

And, again, “_mine_”. Not to keep, but enough to keep safe and happy and hearty. To care for. _Reciprocal_, she hopes.

* * *

Three bodies in one bed, barely big enough for one. A human drooling on a pillow as he curls his frame around a much smaller halfling in between him and an elf who’s snoring up a storm. A tangle of limbs and bodies. A cacophony of noises. A symposium of sensory assaults. A fucking mess.

A _family_, for what it’s worth.


	26. Hardwon Surefoot (pt.2) — QuietChelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Hellfire Crown is dope.
> 
> I love Hardwon.
> 
> The end.

The Hellfire Crown is deceptively simple. A circle of wrought iron, black and twisted, like spires of a chandelier inverted, the points seeming to dig into the melting flesh of Ilsed’s head. The fire erupting from within the center of the spires is a sickly color, an oil slick of evil that even he can sense at ten paces, and somehow hot and cold all at once. But it’s still compulsive, desireable, and the call of it makes him still his hands against his side.

The person that puts that on, rules the Hells. Their plan is to close most of the Hells off and pray that whoever is wearing the Crown isn’t corrupted too far. _Their plan is **stupid**_, the Crown whispers to him, _coz why would you need to **cut off **the Hells when you could rally them **against** Thiala and Akarot and his Hollow Gods?_

He stills his hand against his side and talks. Plans. _Prays_ someone makes a move before he does.

Alanis insists and no. _Nope_. Not _just_ the rising influenced anger of _mine mine this is **mine** back off **fuck you! **_but also they _need_ her. And she deserves to be _happy_. Balnor offers and no, _fuck that_. _He_ deserves happiness too, _the weak fuck who wasn’t there in the Red Fen when you **died**. You could kill him and **no one would miss him**. He hasn’t even been **born** yet._

Beverly, to his _immense_ relief, hasn’t made a move for the Crown either. The flickering whispers of corruption and fire in his head tell him it’s because _he’s **holy**, touched by a god, and therefore would **never** do what he considered **evil**. But if **you** take it, if **you’re** the Lord of the Nine Hells, you can **give** him more power than Pelor has. You can bolster his strength. **You can help him.**_

Moonshine grabs it and his hand flinches to the Queenshammer and he grits his teeth until his jaw hurts. He wouldn’t move against her, even with the howling rage of _no, **mine**, no, I could do it **better!**_She speaks, slow, and the fire in his brain backs down.

She offers a compromise. She offers a patch. She offers Pendergast.

And sure, it’s not perfect but…_fuck, man_, the guy’s a weiner. Galad Rosell took him out and _they_ took out Galad and, after taking out Akarot, he’s pretty certain they can take him.

Against the howling indignation of the Crown calling _mine mine **mine**_, he nods. Fuck it. Better than nothing. Better than someone they care about. And with Geas in place?

He’s felt that spell sink into him, pin him in place in a basement, feral and screaming. It’s strong magic and he trusts Moonshine.

Even as she falters and second-guesses herself, Alanis coming to back her up, _he trusts her implicitly_. She’s saved his life a thousand times over. She and Bev are the closest things he has to an actual family. To siblings.

If Moonshine’s magic is compelling him to do good by their standards, if the Crown is on the head of shitty ol Pendergreens, if they can come back in a month to check—vibe or otherwise—this new Lord of the Hells, then _yeah_. He can settle.

It doesn’t have to be _perfect_. It just has to work for now.

And the rest for later.

But now? They rest


	27. Jaina (pt.2) — QuietChelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been relistening to naddpod and man, MAN, I fucking love Jaina Bronzebeard. Genuinely. I love her a lot.
> 
> So my friends threw me some Jaina prompts. This is one of them.
> 
> Warning: canon character death

She sits at the bar, her fingers itching, and waits.

(Blood on her hands, on the back of her dress, face a grimace, pulled tight in death, and it’s all her fault because she wasn’t there!)

He’s here. He’s supposed to be here. He’s coming here for some unknown reason. He knows something is up and asked her for help. He notified her of their intentions and asked to meet up. He trusted her. Trusts her. Present tense.

(Not like Gemma. Past tense. Past tense. Past. Passed.)

And then they arrive, the prodigal few. Sneaking in like they’re ashamed of shit but they’re safe, they’re innocent, so why bother? And there he is, looking haggard and for all the world exhausted. And she sits them down and demands an explanation. And she is horrified.

(A body on the balcony. And she, the prodigal daughter, to wed the other Coldaine, for blood, for power, for glory, and for a brief moment she hates Gemma for escaping. The grief that follows swallows her whole.)

A bag full of evidence they pass over with no complaint, though he hemms and haws for a bit about the legality of things. A book bound in screaming flesh, demanding blood for power. A coin marked with a profane sigil in the grips of a nervous child paladin. Drugs in vials, a soft magic powder that glitters with flames and potential. A silvery-purple armor breastplate that she knows from legend, belonging to her family, having destroyed it. A note detailing watching Gemma, tracking her and Gerrard. A dagger set with a bright green gem, still coated in blood, that he tries to explain.

(This in her back. She had been looking at—kissing him! He was at fault and she and she and she and she—!)

He yells at his friends to not harm them if they could. He, himself kneels before her. Offers his axe, his neck, his life. His friends watch in silence as she contemplates how easy it would be to take her anger out on him. How easy it would be to spill his blood then write her name in the book and don the armor and murder whomever killed her sister. How simple it would be to be angry and indiscriminate.

(In another life, she takes his head. Distraught, his friends gather his corpse and flee to try to get him to the Mee Maw of the Crick Elves. They flee and fight and she lives with the guilt. In this life, she wavers. In this life, she is weak.)

She wouldn’t. She doesn’t. The fight ends with no bloodshed. He stands up and sits down and points out each item. The three of them explain and she listens this time. The Crick Elf offers her an alternative to grief. She offers her an alternative to waiting for the pain to go away.

(It wouldn’t matter what she came back as. Goblin? Dragonborn? Human? Tiefling? If it is her sister she doesn’t care! She could have her back. Could save her.)

She takes it and runs. She takes it and flies. He lends her his ship—and it is unique to think that Hardwon Surefoot, shitheel dwarfan, is now a hero and an airship captain and knows where he came from and is so sure—and she flies to Gladeholm to find the Mee Maw. To bring back Gemma. To be at peace.

(In her dreams, Gemma begs her to go back. In her dreams, she’s an angel of Morridan. In her dreams, she says it’s all going to be okay. In her dreams, she says that Hardwon needs help.)

When she wakes, she turns the ship around. She believes in dreams and this one is an omen. She won’t ignore her gut. Not again. Not this time.


	28. Jaina (pt.3) — fangirlsftw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Murph? Murph. Where is Jaina, Murph?
> 
> Bev and Mavrus are in Irondeep. Where is my wife, Murph? Where is my wife and her king, Murph? WHERE ARE THEY, MURPH????
> 
> (I will never stop loving Jaina. I will die here on this hill. I love Jaina Bronzebeard so fucking much.)

Gemma would never say it to her face, but she envied Jaina.

Jaina was the eldest. Jaina was the favorite. Jaina never did wrong in their father’s eyes.

Jaina was a warrior, a strong example of the Bronzebeard family, and sturdy. She never talked back, never did anything that their father wouldn’t approve of, and her only fault was that she couldn’t grow a “proper” beard.

Gemma wanted to be her so badly.

Some days, she wanted her to fuck up.

So maybe dating Hardwon had started as a way to get back at her father and, by extension, Jaina—who had been assigned her guard, as “you’re incapable of not shooting your damn fool mouth off”—but it became something more. And maybe she was a little angry about how their father didn’t let her do jack shit, but Jaina would cover for her and suggest little ways to rebel and somehow…

Somehow…

There was something enviable about the quiet way Jaina rebelled.

Gemma was loud, was angry, was disobedient. Gemma dated a dwarfan, a human, an outcast. Gemma cut her beard once with a dull knife on a dare, drunk off her ass. Gemma punched her cousin in the teeth. Gemma told her father to fuck off. Gemma was the youngest.

Gemma got told off. Gemma got grounded. Gemma got her shit taken. Gemma got a guard. Gemma was forbidden from seeing Hardwon. Gemma was told if she kept seeing him, he would get hurt. No one would miss a dwarfan. No one would miss the human under the mountain.

She hated it. She hated that the only way she could control her life was shut down. That she had to be loud to be heard. That being loud got her and the people she cared about hurt.

But Jaina? She was a warrior because she didn’t have a nice enough beard to be a “proper” noble so she got good with every weapon she got her hands on and became the best warrior in Irondeep. If she ever got married—a notion she gently dismissed as a waste of her time, not unkindly though—she would be the one to control the estate. But instead, because of Gemma’s so-called “tantrums”, she was set to be her private bodyguard.

She didn’t complain. She did her job. She just happened to not notice when Gemma wandered off to meet up with Hardwon. She took naps when she should be guarding her room and somehow Gemma got out and went drinking. She didn’t complain. She didn’t rat her out. She just quietly and silently undermined their father by letting Gemma have her way.

And that was a courage Gemma wished she had.

But she was a coward and she broke up with Hardwon. She was a coward and agreed to marry the Pale Prince. She was a coward and she met up with Hardwon at the party, even though she was trying to leave all this behind.

And Jaina?

She stood by, quietly, only judging in the way that a sister does, and let her get away with it.

A quiet, enviable rebellion.


	29. Apple Scrumper (pt.2) — anon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apple is great. Fucking unit. Absolutely ripped. Also an adrenaline junkie.

Last she had seen of _these four_, they’d been flying off in an airship, having helped her become about ninety plat richer, _none the wiser_ she’d _taken_ them for it neither. She’d been off to the Field, content that the Rot was fucking gone coz Moonshine said it was—and Moonshine was _pretty much_ family anyway, so who’s to believe she’d lie there—and ready to square up against whatever fucking shit the Chosen might think they were planning for the Field and their folks.

_Months_ later and she’s trying to help train a bunch of shitty high elves in Gladeholm how to mudboard. _Sure_, she _might_ have been hired to teach em to _fight_ or someshit, but they had no strength or constitution, so holding a blade would be fucking pointless. They’d _just as likely_ stab _their own dicks off_ as soon as hit an enemy in heavy armor moving at a damn snails pace. But _she_ figured, see, that if she could teach them to board—which was an arguably better skill to have and also _much less boring_ to teach—they _might_ have the coordination to _finally_ hit the barn side of a cow.

She didn’t expect the work to be _so bloody tedious_. Or _boring_. _Or_ for the world to start ending.

That _last_ bit was choice. At least an apocalypse is _exciting_. At least monsters are _exciting_. Not teaching a bunch of knobs how to balance on an unmoving board. _That_ shit was boring as hell and _twice as long_.

So when she caught wind that _those four_ she met in Smuggler’s Bounty were back—from _Ulfgar_, of all people, who was a bloody riot to wrestle with—she was _fucking stoked_. Maybe they’d have something _interesting_ for her to do with her time! _Maybe_ they’d have something more fun than watching a bunch of high elves fall off of flat pieces of wood and bloody their damn noses and chip their perfect teeth.

(But _gods_, they looked rough. Moonshine looked darker, her skin marked with frostbite healed over, the mushrooms in her hair and on her skin of a more poisonous type than before. Hardwon was _skinnier_, somehow, but he had _all sorts_ of new chunks of him missing, and his neck was covered in healing burns. Beverly looked older and more tired, his eyes streaked with grey ash, the baby fat gone from his cheeks, leaving a strikingly stern expression. And _Balnor_, who she hadn’t seen much of nor cared much for, seemed more grounded and serious, like he was a pillar keeping them upright.)

(And _sure_, they laughed and joked with their buddy Mavrus, this idiot fucking tief fellow, and _sure_, they _seemed_ happier surrounded with friends and family, but _something_ seemed _heavier_. Not _just_ the fact that they were gonna kill a fuckall big dinosaur up by Frostwind, but _more_ than that.)

(_Something_ had changed and it may not have been _for the better_.)

(But you know what? _Fuck it!_ The world was ending. Better not worry about shit like that and have a bloody riot when able.)

(She was gonna kill a dinosaur possessed by a lich that used to be the Lord of the Nine Hells! How many people could say they were gonna do that?)

(_Seven_. Exactly _seven_ people. _That’s_ how many.)

(But she was gonna have a bloody good time doing it, and _that’s_ what fucking mattered.)


	30. Uncle Red — celestial-heiroglyphs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I get an F in chat for Uncle Red?
> 
> Damn, Murph did that.

After leaving Elias Jr—_Hardwon_, he reminded himself, _that’s the name the kid goes by_—at Irondeep, Red figured he was done dealing with kids. That he wasn’t gonna get tangled up in people too young to drink. That it’d be him and Gunther and Elias’s ship, once they got it skyworthy.

And then Hardwon and his friends found them and he found himself doing “one more job” because he had a death wish and felt like he fucking owed Lydia and Elias _that_ much at least. And then it’s one more and one more and _one more _and, _huh_, for an old man in a shitty world, he can’t settle down, can he?

(Neither can Gunther, but they never were the white picket fence and ranch house type anyway. Fucking flying round and killing fascists was much more their speed.)

Before he could blink, he’s got half a dozen refugees he’s gotta drop off at this halfling village, some number of soldiers who are shell-shocked by what just happened to their home, and two kids. Two precocious, angry halfling kids.

He couldn’t shake them. The older one—a knighted ranger back in Galaderon, this ginger fury known as the Lady Snake—was a hardened fighter and hurting all in one go. The other—her brother and _something_ to do with Hardwon’s lil friend Beverly, some kind of paladin cleric holy _something_ or other—was more reserved but _just_ as stubborn. Looked Red right in his eyes and told him he wasn’t gonna be a burden any more. It’s enough to move his old stone heart and, after a quick conference with Gunther, he figured that the four of them could work something out.

(There’s a chunk of him that wondered, if he had kept Hardwon with them, if _this_ is what it would have been like. Two old folks and some kids just doing heroic and pirate shit. Him and Gunther sparring with the two, teaching them how to expect what shouldn’t be expected. Shit meals shared with friends who might as well be family.)

(Made him feel more than a little guilty most nights.)

When the world ended—long after a stressful trek to Irondeep with Cobb in tow, Erlin tore up about something to do with Bev, Egwene mad on his behalf—the five of them were a unit. A _family_. If Red was gonna adopt kids, he may as well have signed the papers with Erlin and Egwene with all they’d grown on them. But even as they faced off against Jubilex, waiting for help to come, he couldn’t help but worry for them as much as he worried for Gunther.

And then Gunther _died_.

They killed the fucker and, _sure_, there was promise of Gunther being reborn _but_—

Erlin was taken and he was half of a whole trying to hold himself _and_ Egwene together.

And _after_ the world ended, as they reconvened at a Gladeholm that hovered above the wreckage of Irondeep, they learned that even _that_ was bittersweet.

Gunther was _back_ and Erlin was _gone_. A bargaining chip. Leverage against Bev. And Egwene—

_Fuck_, he was pissed about it too, but he was an old man. He’d seen enough war and terror to know that sometimes it just went like that. Win and lose.

But he felt for Egwene.

And he felt selfish for being glad Gunther was back.

And time passed and he felt impotent for being unable to help her but being self-serving and selfish served him well for all he’d been alive.

And there, laying in bed with Gunther, wondering what he would do now, he felt something else.

He felt—

(_Oh_, she was going to be _alone_ again. She was going to be alone _again_ and it was _his_ fault. _Oh_. That was _tragic_. _That’s_ why he didn’t want to take Hardwon with them in the first place.)

—_nothing_


	31. Egwene — fangirlsftw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Murph know I fucking love Egwene? I love her so much. I want her to be happy. I want her to be safe. I want her to have dads.
> 
> (She was sleeping in the same house as Red and Gunther. I'm crying.)

She stands there, in the back corner of the room, nursing a beer and a sour attitude. She doesn’t care that _everyone_ is celebrating the people of Hill Holm making their way to the refuge of Gladeholm. She doesn’t care that _everyone_ is celebrating the homecoming of people thought to be lost.

She doesn’t care because _Erlin isn’t here._

Her gaze passes across the floor as she takes a long draught of her beer. Ol Cobb is dipping Jolene in a low dance, wirey hips bumping against her thicker curves, laughing with _all_ of him. Gunther — still _slightly_ off-kilter after being reincarnated — is slow dancing with Red, their faces soft and pensive as they re-learn each other. Hardwon is off with Moonshine, dancing like nobody is watching and doing _so goddamn poorly_.

Beverly is dancing with his mom, hands around her shoulders, face lit up with a bright smile.

He doesn’t _deserve_ to be that happy. He doesn’t deserve to be happy _at all._

She sips her beer and lets the thought linger. Why should she _refute_ it? He _doesn’t_ deserve to be happy after what he did. After _failing _to bring her brother back. _He_ should be the one in that gem, Erlin _safe_ and _back here _with her and Nana. _He_ should be missing. He should be _hurting_. He _shouldn’t_ be happy. He shouldn’t be _laughing_. He shouldn’t be dancing.

If he’s _so_ goddamn _important_ that Thiala would take her brother hostage to hurt him, then _why the_ _fuck_ didn’t he save him?

If he’s _so_ goddamn _powerful_ that he’s one of four people that stand a _vague_ chance of beating that fucking fake goddess, then _why the fucking shit _didn’t he _kill_ the wraith that trapped him?

If he loves Erlin _so goddamn much_, then _why the fucking hell _didn’t _he_ take his fucking place in that gem?

If he wants to help _so bad_, then <strike>_why is she drowning_?</strike>

If he’s _such_ a fucking _hero_, then why is he here, dancing like _nothing_ is wrong?

If he fucking gives a rat’s goddamn ass about _anything_, why is _he_ happy?

If — _if — **if —?!**_

If _one_ more person tries to tell her to _have faith_, to _wait_, to _be patient_, to _train_, that _**everything** is going to be **okay**_, that _he’s **going** to make it home_, that _they’re **sorry**_, then she was going to lose her _fucking_ mind.

If _he_ got to be happy and dance and see his mother again, then _she_ sure as shit could _hate him for it_.

She doesn’t want him dead — because he _can_ stop Thiala, because he _can_ save Erlin, because she _likes_ him _in spite of_ everything, because he’s a fucking _kid_, because he’s _Beverly_, because she doesn’t hate him as much as she likes to say she does — but she _does_ resent him for being alive. She _does_ resent him for being here.

She _does_ resent him for being happy.

She takes a draught of her beer and stares, blankly, at the party. The wall behind her is cold and solid and it hurts her shoulders.

She hates <strike>herself</strike>him for being unable to save him.

<strike>Again.</strike>


End file.
